


Good Enough

by Descaladumidera



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And angst, I will make it a thing, I'll keep to the time they live in so don't expect everyone to be okay with two men dating, If you read it, Like, M/M, Please Don't Hate Me, Shawbernathy, TW: Homophobia, but also fluff, honestly, is this pairing a thing?, please read it, the usual drama occurs, they will be cute, tw: alcohol, tw: self-loathing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-12-20 15:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11924202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Descaladumidera/pseuds/Descaladumidera
Summary: He tells himself it’s just a bad day, a bad week—maybe a bad month. What he doesn’t tell himself is that it has already been a whole bad year.While James tries to deal with his place at MACUSA and the way he is treated there, Langdon is struggling with his brother’s death and the fact that his father has always been disappointed with him. Two souls who don’t think they will ever be good enough but find comfort in each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first time I’m writing a longer fic in English. Please bear with me and tell me if I made any mistakes—I won’t be mad.
> 
> Also, you can find me on Tumblr as [descaladumidera](https://descaladumidera.tumblr.com/). :)
> 
> I know it’s a rare pairing but maybe give it a chance? There needs to be more love for these two dorks!

He tells himself it’s just a bad day, a bad week—maybe a bad month. What he doesn’t tell himself is that it has already been a whole bad year. That’s why he is sitting here, getting drunk all by himself, even if he doesn’t want to see it. But there has to be a reason he is sitting in this dingy No-Maj speakeasy with its dodgy patrons and its stinking barkeeper who probably hasn’t seen a shower in at least three weeks and is staring at him warily.

It doesn’t come as a surprise, really. He is sitting there, in his pristine suit, coming right off of work, having worked late hours. Again. He looks nothing like the other people in this speakeasy, it apparently being one of the shadier ones in New York.

At least the bargirl is nice to look at, a welcome contrast to the dusty shelves behind the scratched and stained counter, a contrast to the dirty floor that most certainly hasn’t been cleaned in ages. A contrast to the barkeeper who is still looking at him like he wants to throw him out but can’t because he leaves good money there.

She is a young, pretty thing, looking like she’s fresh out of school, wearing a too short skirt for this establishment. Men more than twice her age are gawking at her, hands slipping beneath the flimsy fabric, groping a pert ass. And he wants to get his wand out and jinx these disgusting human beings into oblivion. If she were his daughter, he would have never allowed her to be out and about at this time of the day—and in these clothes! But if she were his daughter, she wouldn’t have to work here, likely saving every penny she doesn’t need to feed herself and pay her rent for a better life.

Maybe his life isn’t so bad. Yes, he works long hours nearly every day and doesn’t get appreciated by his coworkers. Yes, they don’t treat him like the Director of Wand Permits should be treated. But his pay is good; he can afford a suitable apartment and has three meals a day without cutting short on anything. And he doesn’t wear cheap suits. Not as expensive ones as for example Mr Graves wears every day but not the cheap suits he sees No-Majs running around with when they want to seem important.

No, his life isn’t too bad. But being treated as no more than a mere coffee wizard at MACUSA, expected to cater to the higher-ups’ every need and whim … It isn’t what he has expected of his life. Especially not when he has worked so hard to be where he is now.

He is caught too deep in his thoughts to notice the bargirl coming over, stopping right next to him with a flirtatious smile. Startling him out of his musings, she asks, ‘Anythin’ else for you, Sir?’ She hasn’t spoken to him before but now her thick, southern accent comes through and he has to strain his alcohol induced brain to comprehend the words.

‘Uh …’ he starts not so smartly but catches himself within the second, wetting his suddenly dry lips before taking another approach. ‘Another scotch, please.’

She looks at him with pity in her eyes—but maybe it’s just the dim light, playing tricks on him. No, it isn’t too far fetched to have that girl pitying him. He just has to look at himself; sitting here on a Friday night, all alone, still in his working attire, clutching an empty glass of cheap scotch. He is pathetic.

Another glass is placed in front of him by the grim looking barkeeper and the empty one is pried out of his hand. He doesn’t even know why he is holding onto it so hard. It’s a wonder it hasn’t burst into thousand pieces yet, his grip being so tight. But then, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? It would have been a terrible end to his evening, having to leave with splinters of glass embedded in his palm. Well, it would have been a terrible end to a terrible day, to a terrible night. So, who cares?

He does. Because he isn’t done with his scotch. He isn’t drunk enough yet. And so he won’t let this terrible day end even more terrible. Because he refuses.

It is with the fury of his thoughts that he takes the next sip—and promptly chokes on it. The once welcome, burning sensation from the alcohol now turns into raging flames, engulfing his throat and making it unable for him to draw the slightest breath. While he coughs violently, tears springing into his eyes, he senses how the other patrons look at him, probably thinking what a sissy he is. Not even being able to hold his liquor.

‘You alright there, pal?’ Someone asks next to him and he heaves a few more coughs before he finally calms down, drawing deep breaths far too fast, making him choke again. ‘Hey, easy there.’ The same someone is patting him on the back now, easing his coughing quite a bit until it subsides completely.

There is a chuckle and a glass of water is pushed in front of him. He contemplates gulping it down as fast as possible to ease the burn and to soothe his throbbing throat but stops himself. It would only end in another coughing fit and he really doesn’t want that.

‘Thank you,’ he rasps out and takes a tiny sip. The cool water runs down his throat smoothly and he sighs, closing his eyes in content. This is better. He can feel how his muscles ease up, how the stinging tears in his eyes subside, how his throat is suddenly free again.

‘Better?’ Now he opens his eyes and looks to his left, to the man sitting right next to him, wearing a small smile on a tired looking face. Green eyes stare right back and he clears his throat, nodding his head at the question.

‘Much better,’ he replies, voice still strained from his coughing fit.

He examines the other man. He seems to be around his own height, brown hair neatly styled, a slight stubble on his chin, wearing a normal suit, not looking too expensive, and a really atrocious tie. This should be forbidden.

The man looks him up and down as well and he suddenly feels very exposed. To distract himself he takes another sip of his water before facing the other once again who is still looking at him.

‘You don’t look like you come here often.’

The words take him a bit by surprise. He hasn’t thought of people wanting to make conversation with him—why should they? He doesn’t look very sociable right now if he is honest with himself. But there is an answer on the tip of his tongue and he just lets the words flow out, ‘Well, don’t want to get in trouble with the prohibition and all.’ The No-Majs still have this thing, right? Shortly he panics but then he remembers that he is currently sitting in a No-Maj _speakeasy_ —which is very much illegal. In both senses. He is currently breaking the No-Maj law on not consuming alcohol and Rappaport’s Law on not interacting with No-Majs. Well, he can very well do both right now. It’s too late to back out anyway.

‘Fair enough.’

He just shrugs and gets back to his scotch, this time taking a careful sip to not choke again on the—apparently—too strong liquor. He can feel the eyes of the other man on him but he tries to ignore it, not in the mood for any more small talk. Or any talk at all. But it gets harder and harder, the other boring holes into his suit by just staring at him and he sighs and turns around, finishing his scotch while doing so. He lifts an eyebrow and fixes the stranger with a questioning look. ‘Do I have anything in my hair or why are you staring like this?’ The words come out bolder than intended.

The man only grins, slightly sheepish, and holds out his hand. ‘I’m Langdon Shaw. Just wanted to introduce myself. Pleasure to meet you.’

‘Uhm …’ He is a bit dumbstruck but grabs the offered hand nonetheless, a small smile stretching his own lips. ‘James Abernathy. Likewise.’

Suddenly the evening doesn’t feel so gloomy anymore, with the prospect of a nice chat with Langdon. James realises that he has felt lonely the whole day and that he just craves a bit of casual human interaction. Not the one where others push him around because they think he is beneath them, only throwing him the usual forced polite phrases because others are watching and judging. And every time he just smiles, inclines his head and wishes a good day, asks about the children, if they had a nice weekend, how’s the wife doing? They give him clipped answers, obviously annoyed with his presence but he doesn’t let that get to him and continues his day.

It’s tiring. He is tired.

‘Long day?’

‘Long week.’

Langdon nods in understanding and tips his glass to James who only has his water left—courtesy of his new acquaintance. But he clinks their glasses together nonetheless, the smile still on his lips, and he empties that glass too before ordering another scotch. The barkeeper looks at him funnily but pours him his beverage anyway. Apparently money is worth more than his customers well-being. Well, James wouldn’t object, as long as the alcohol keeps flowing, easing his terrible day and making his now better night even more bearable.

‘What do you do for a living?’ Langdon asks, obviously not knowing how to start a conversation, as they have just established that James had a rough day. A rough day most certainly caused by his work. But to be fair, Langdon can’t know that. And so James won’t hold it against him.

He rakes his brain for an appropriate answer that wouldn’t include that he is a wizard and working for the wizarding government of America. ‘Uhm … I’m the supervisor of a department in our company.’ He silently congratulates himself for this precise and at the same time vague interpretation of his job. At least it isn’t a lie. Not completely. Okay, MACUSA might not be a company but he can hardly tell a No-Maj that he works for the government—Langdon wouldn’t believe him.

Langdon nods again. It seems to be a standard reaction of his but James’ alcohol muddled brain doesn’t care much as he nips at his scotch, the burn welcome in his throat, distracting him from his more depressing thoughts.

‘Which company?’

James jolts. _Oh, good gravy! What do I answer?_ Shortly James panics, his eyes going wide in the frantic search for an answer. To not look like a fool, he begins to speak, stammering out, ‘I … uh … It doesn’t really matter, does it?’ He tries to get out of it, hands sweaty, nervousness creeping up on him. ‘I really don’t want to talk about work right now.’

‘Understandable. Me neither.’ A dark expression clouds Langdon’s face before he schools his features. And James thinks that he maybe just imagined it, that his mind made it up, just to fuck with him. Alcohol does funny things sometimes and he doesn’t indulge in this frivolity often, so his body isn’t used to consume larger amounts.

They sit together in silence for a little while longer, emptying glass after glass, sometimes James pays for their drinks and sometimes Langdon does. It’s a companionable silence and neither of them has the urge to speak, to add their chatter to the murmur occupying the air of the speakeasy. It feels somehow cosy like this and James forgets the time. He doesn’t care anyway. It’s Friday and he feels better than he did all week and that’s just because someone—a stranger—is sitting next to him, sometimes smiling in his direction, but more often than not just staring into his drink, thinking. At least James assumes that Langdon is thinking. But the most important thing is, that Langdon treats him like an actual human being, worthy of being treated with respect and kindness. Maybe he is a bit nosy but James doesn’t care about this either. It’s nice to have someone interested in _him_ for once. Not if he has the files ready or if he can brew a coffee. But in him as a person. It feels good.

‘It’s getting late,’ he says eventually, his voice slurred, tongue heavy. He doesn’t even know if Langdon is able to understand him, the other man looking like he is about to pass out in the next few minutes. And that’s his cue to finally stop drinking and considering going home.

With a shaky hand he reaches into his pocket, rummaging around, clumsy fingers searching for his pocket watch until they find it, grabbing it tightly and pulling it out of the offending fabric. The watch reads half past three. Obviously in the morning, but James’ brain needs a few seconds to get to this conclusion, his mind comfortably feeling like it’s stuffed full of cotton. It’s warm and cosy and he is smiling like a loon, still staring down at his pocket watch.

‘Yeah, late,’ Langdon finally chimes in, his voice raspy—has he even used it in the past few hours? James can’t tell. But the hoarseness stirs something deep in his gut, a slight churning. Maybe he is about to vomit. He wonders briefly if he should take the chance and leave in the hope of making it home without incident or if he should go to the probably disgusting toilet and empty his stomach. But that would mean that he would be sober far sooner than he wants.

Eventually he makes a decision. Turning to Langdon, he asks, ‘Wanna go home?’

Langdon looks at him with bleary eyes, the question processing in his head. James can nearly see the cogs turn until the sentence settles in. The barkeeper is eyeing them warily. Maybe he thinks James proposed for anything else than just leaving this Mercy Lewis forsaken place. Maybe he thinks …

‘Oh.’ He says it out loud, despite only wanting to think it. ‘I meant—uh … just … lea—leaving? Going home? Nothing ina—inoppra—’

‘Inappropriate?’ Langdon helps him out and James nods frantically.

‘Yes. That one.’

Langdon smiles and James’ heart skips a beat. He can’t help but smile back, happiness radiating off of him. He feels so _good_. Langdon is a nice guy. He is one of the good ones. James knows it.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Langdon murmurs and stumbles off of his barstool, grabbing onto James’ sleeve to not tumble to the ground. James startles due to the added weight on his arm, his own hand slamming down onto the counter to not lose his balance.

They somehow make it out, stumbling and nearly toppling over, completely drunk and unable to walk by themselves, being one of the last ones to leave the speakeasy. They don’t even realise it. Not even the cold night air—it is only February—is able to sober them up enough to not need the help of the other to stand upright. And so they find themselves walking side by side, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, trying not to slip on the icy ground.

Langdon’s weight against James is reassuring, the warmth of another body next to his soothing. Calm settles in his bones and he lets out a silent sigh as he leans just a bit more against his new acquaintance.

They don’t talk, not one word makes it past their lips. It’s a comfortable silence again and they just watch their steps, setting one foot in front of the other. At least James knows the direction he has to take to get home. And eventually the time comes when they need to part.

They don’t hug—it would be too awkward for two grown men who just met a few hours ago. Even if there is a quick thought running through James’ head that it would be nice to hug Langdon. That it would be nice to feel the other man against himself, to bath in his warmth just a little bit longer, to take a whiff of the other’s cologne. But he doesn’t act on it, sober enough to realise that it would be a bad idea. Not to mention creepy. So they say their goodbyes, words blurred, tongues still heavy with alcohol, but it is sincere. At least James thinks it is. It feels like it is. Langdon’s hand in his is warm and the tightness of his grip makes him feel just a bit better, a bit more comforted.

‘We should do this again.’

‘Yes, we should,’ James replies, before both of them turn around and go their separate ways, not once looking back. James thinks this is one of those meetings that will never reoccur.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a week later that he finds himself in the exact same speakeasy like the Friday before, again sitting at the counter, still splotchy with years of spilt alcohol, sticky in the scratches left in the dark wood. Like last time, a glass of scotch is in his hand, the liquor lazily swishing around while his hand occupies itself with playing with said glass. And again the barkeeper is throwing him wary glances as if he thinks James is secretly a … His mind draws a blank while he searches for the right No-Maj term, his face scrunched up in concentration. He must look like a lunatic, his expression changing with each second.

Eventually he settles on the term ‘No-Maj Auror’ just to appease his mind which is still struggling to find the word the No-Majs use. And the barkeeper is still keeping an eye on him. Again James has come here right after work, still sporting his suit, not dressed for this kind of establishment. But he finds he doesn’t care. And why should he? He isn’t about to meet anyone or rat them out to the authorities. He just wants to have a drink by himself, trying to forget this week which has been equally as horrible as his last.

His thoughts drift to this morning, his expression getting dark. Is it really that difficult to say a simple ‘thank you’? And to apologise when you knock someone over? Apparently it is for his superiors. Luckily he is a wizard and has been able to get rid of the coffee stain that has adorned his pristine white shirt right after he arrived at MACUSA and got himself a coffee. A congress member has run into him, making James spill the hot beverage all over himself. But did he get an apology? No, of course not. Just a look that said, ‘Mind where you are standing!’ And really, has it been his fault? He has been standing, not walking, being a bother to no one!

He shakes his head to get rid of this train of thoughts, before he can make his mood even worse, and takes a sip of his drink, emptying his glass in the process. He is just about to open his mouth to order himself a new scotch when a full glass is placed in front of him. James looks up, bewilderment written on his face, and stares at the barkeeper, ready to ask why the hell the man thinks he can just give him another drink without permission to do so. But before he can get a word out, his mouth hanging open slightly, the barkeeper grunts and nods to a table in the far back of the speakeasy.

James turns towards said table and squints, the light too dim to see much beyond dingy shadows in coats that all look the same, some of them sporting the occasional hat. Sometimes he has thought about buying himself a hat as well, but he has discarded the idea as soon as he has seen himself in a mirror with one. The look doesn’t suit him at all.

A man waves at him from the table and James decides to just walk over. It’s a No-Maj after all and if anything goes awry, he can always defend himself and obliviate everyone later. Not that he would like to do that—especially not as he is slightly tipsy at the moment. And memory charms have never been his strong suit. Well, maybe he will just punch him if the guy tries to murder him.

‘James!’ he is greeted and a smile settles on his lips as he slides into the booth, right next to the man.

‘Langdon,’ he says and nods, lifting his glass. Langdon clinks his own against it and they both take a sip, savouring the taste of the cheap scotch that’s sold for far too much in this dingy speakeasy. But people are desperate and pay for it, even if they could have a better quality. It’s all about how to get around the prohibition. For the wizards and witches of New York it is easy to get their fill as their laws don’t forbid the consumption of alcohol—but No-Majs have a bigger problem. If their authorities find out about the illegal speakeasies … Well, nothing good will come out of it, James is sure about this.

‘Bad day again?’

‘Week,’ James replies and takes a big gulp, the scotch burning in his throat, making it itch, making him want to cough, but he stops himself, eyes watering dangerously. Luckily the lighting in the room is beyond bad and not even Langdon would be able to see the tears in James’ eyes, despite sitting right next to him. ‘How about you? Just winding down from work or is there something on your mind, driving you here?’ James really doesn’t know why he is asking so boldly. Usually he wouldn’t pry on another’s private live, but maybe the alcohol slowly does its deed and makes his tongue loose and his head light. Not thinking sounds great.

Langdon is quiet for an awfully long time and James begins to think that he hasn’t heard him at all or is just plainly ignoring him, not wanting to talk about anything at all. James can understand that. He wouldn’t want to talk about personal matters either.

‘Tell me, James,’ Langdon suddenly starts after a minute or two of silence, just sipping at his drink and staring off into space. As if he has lost himself deep in thoughts—and maybe that has been the case and he hasn’t answered James because he has been caught up in his own mind. ‘Tell me,’ he starts again, ‘do you believe in witchcraft?’

James would laugh at the term ‘witchcraft’ but instead he nearly chokes on his drink at the odd question—didn’t he nearly choke on his drink last time, too, when Langdon said anything to him? He is sure, he did. It’s kind of a déjà-vu.

He looks at Langdon and the other’s eyes are big and full of hope, his glass forgotten, his hands gripping the edges of the table tightly, knuckles getting white with the force. He might as well be able to break it and James wouldn’t be surprised. But somehow … something seems wrong and James can’t wrap his head around what’s ticking him off. It’s a feeling, deep in his guts, making his insides churn while he stares intensely at Langdon’s face, trying to read more than the mere words the man has said.

When his brain doesn’t want to catch up with his instincts, he sighs. He needs to give an answer soon or Langdon will suspect that something is wrong. As of now he probably thinks that he has thrown James off—which isn’t entirely wrong—but the longer he thinks about this, the more Langdon will wonder what takes him so long.

And, really, what could go wrong? ‘Yes, I do,’ James answers and shoots his companion a reassuring smile, showing that he isn’t mocking him. Because he _knows_ that magic is real. He won’t tell Langdon as much but it makes his words come out with a power of confidence that he rarely possesses. And that feels good.

Langdon lets go of the table, eyes going wide, mouth hanging open. A pink tongue darts out and wets his lips, before his left hand lands hard on James’ thigh, making him jump slightly in his seat. ‘Really? You don’t think I’m a freak?’ He asks urgently, his fingers digging into the black fabric, palms sweaty. James can feel it, can feel the heat of Langdon’s skin through his clothes. And is it him or does Langdon lean closer, their faces nearly touching? James leans back and manages a weak smile, uncomfortable with the close proximity of the other man. What will the other patrons think when they see them so close together?

Gently James pries Langdon’s hand off. ‘No, I don’t think you are,’ he answers, his voice going quiet, his eyes soft instead of wary. He hopes to keep their conversation quiet as well, not wanting anyone to think them freaks—as Langdon has so eloquently put it—when they hear them talking about magic.

Langdon heaves a shuddering sigh and finally lets go of James, scooting back a few inches to give the other man his space. James watches closely as Langdon puts the heels of his hands against his eyes, suddenly looking tired, as if all the weight of the world is weighing down on his shoulders. James feels sorry for him.

He lays a hand tenderly on Langdon’s shoulder, making him jump. He utters a quick apology, withdrawing his hand immediately as he looks away. He just wants to offer some sort of comfort because the other man suddenly looks so exhausted. But now Langdon has at least put down his hands, back on the table, eyes fixed on the dark wood.

‘Are you … are you alright?’

‘Yes,’ Langdon answers and swallows. James feels the nervous energy radiating off of him but he keeps quiet. ‘… No.’ Langdon heaves a quiet sigh, breath shuddering in his throat, and closes his eyes. James can see that he has to keep himself under control—he looks like bursting.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ He asks reluctantly, not knowing how his offer would be received with them being nearly strangers to each other.

But Langdon nods, eyes still firmly shut, and stands up. James quickly follows suit and they leave the speakeasy, ducking into the next alley. It’s already dark and James can barely see anything in the dingy alleyway, can barely see his own breath, forming light puffs right in front of his mouth. It’s cold and the fact that they are standing in a deserted alley is making him uneasy but Langdon seems to know what he is doing.

Suddenly a little flame lights up the dirty brick wall right next to him and he watches how Langdon lights a cigarette. James hasn’t smoked in ages, has tried it once while still at school. All the time his conscious has nagged him back then, making him fear being discovered by a teacher. But his … friends … back then didn’t think they would be caught—and luckily they weren’t. Still, James associates cigarettes with this queasy feeling of doing something forbidden. Not to talk about the unpleasant burning in his throat, followed by a mean coughing fit that has made his friends laugh at him.

But strangely enough—he craved one. Now, watching Langdon dragging lazily at the cigarette, plush lips closing around the end, makes him want one desperately.

Noticing that he is staring, he looks away and asks, ‘Butt me?’

Langdon throws him a glance, shrugs, and digs around in his coat pocket, getting out his cigarette case. He opens it one handedly, the other hand occupied with his own cigarette, again neatly placed between his rosy lips.

James grabs one and when Langdon hands him a matchbox, he utters, ‘Thank you.’

It takes him two tries to light the match, usually using his wand whenever he needs fire, but now his cigarette is glowing. He hands Langdon the matchbox back and puts the cigarette between his own lips—only to start coughing violently as soon as he takes the first drag. It feels like the last time, the smoke setting his throat aflame, forcing tears into his eyes, stinging like he has rubbed chilli into them.

Trying to free his lungs, he drops the cigarette into the dirt at his feet, the gentle glow mocking him as if to say he shouldn’t be such a pussy. Well, he couldn’t care less right now. It’s hard to breathe. He is wheezing, trying to regain the control over his lungs again.

‘Hey. Hey, calm down.’ There is a hand on his back, holding him steady. He can smell smoke but his watery eyes can’t seen anything in the darkness of the alley, not even the faint glow of the cigarette anymore—maybe it has gone out.

Slowly, with every second, his wheezing gets less until it finally stops and he is able to stand upright again, Langdon’s hand still resting on his back, slowly slipping from his shoulder blades to his waist, his touch ever so light. Langdon’s hand lingers and James shudders—it doesn’t feel right to be touched like this—by a man nonetheless—and he takes a step back. Langdon’s hand slips from his waist to his side and James clears his throat, still burning from the smoke he has inhaled.

‘Sorry.’ His voice is hoarse and he clears his throat again, only making the burning worse with every try. Deciding to stop, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and leans back against the wall.

‘Your first fag?’

‘Second.’ There is a shy smile on James’ face and he looks at Langdon. ‘The first time I was still at school and it was equally as bad. Maybe even worse. I don’t think smoking is for me.’

Langdon shrugs and drops his own cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with one of his immaculate polished shoes. ‘That’s alright. It’s just a fashion thing—it got worse when alcohol has been prohibited, I think. We need to cope somehow,’ he says and looks up at James. His gaze is intense, his eyes boring into James—and suddenly he feels even smaller than he already is. It’s a strange feeling, something akin to fire surging throw his veins, making him thrum with restless energy. He feels like running, getting away. As if Langdon has suddenly become dangerous. He isn’t dangerous, James tells himself and licks his lips nervously.

‘What did you want to talk about?’ He asks to break the tension that has overtaken them, suffocating them like a thick blanket.

Langdon looks away, abruptly. Now it’s him who seems so small, so vulnerable. And James has the urge to take him in his arms. He shakes his head to get the thoughts away, impure as they are. How can he even think about anything like that? Hugging another man—a stranger. That’s highly inappropriate and he is glad that no legilimens is in his close proximity right now.

‘You don’t need to talk about it. Maybe we should go home,’ he suggests to break the silence that has stretched on for an uncomfortably long time.

‘No, it’s … hard to talk about it.’ Langdon takes a deep breath and takes a step closer to James. And James lets him, sensing that Langdon needs the closeness of another human being now, no matter who it is. ‘You heard of Senator Shaw?’

James thinks for a moment. And then it hits him. That’s why he has had this uneasy feeling earlier. He swallows dryly, forcing his mouth to work, his throat contracting with each syllable. ‘Y—Yes. Of course.’

‘He was my brother.’

James could just stop himself from cursing out loud, biting his tongue painfully. _Of course_ Langdon Shaw has to be related to the No-Maj the obscurus has killed back in December. And _of course_ James had to run into him. If anyone finds out about this, he is as good as dead.

‘I’m sorry,’ he forces himself to say, thinking frantically of how to get out of this situation and never run into Langdon again. Maybe he should just obliviate him. But there is no reason why he should do it and so he doesn’t, just standing there awkwardly, waiting for Langdon to say more. Because right now he doesn’t know what this has to do with anything they have talked about inside.

‘I think a witch killed him,’ Langdon says in the most serious tone possible, voice quiet, just above a whisper. He doesn’t seem to have heard James at all, staring straight at the ground now, his right shoe tormenting the dirt beneath it.

Cold sweat stands on James’ forehead, while he licks his lips nervously, trying to figure out what to say. He wants to say something—anything. But he doesn’t know what, his eloquence gone in an instant. ‘I—’ He starts but is immediately interrupted by Langdon.

‘I don’t remember the circumstances exactly, everything is a blur. But … but there was _something_. Something _dark_. _Sinister_. I can’t put my hands on it, but there is something in the back of my mind, trying to make me remember. My brother can’t have just died. He had just ended a speech and then … then he was lying there, _dead_. He was in perfect health,’ Langdon tells him, hesitantly. He is fidgeting with the hem of his coat’s sleeve, his fingers trembling. James isn’t sure it is because of the cold night air. ‘I don’t even remember the funeral,’ he ads faintly, obviously deeply ashamed, and James wonders why Langdon is so open with him. Maybe it’s still courtesy to the alcohol. Maybe it’s just because he needs to get it off his chest. James is, after all, only a stranger, who—as Langdon probably thinks—won’t remember him come next day.

And James knows why he can’t remember the funeral as the body of Senator Shaw is still at MACUSA as evidence of the havoc Grindelwald has wreaked. Aurors and Obliviators have worked long hours for weeks to cover up everything that has happened back then. MACUSA is still a mess, the congress shaken—but at least Grindelwald is back in Britain, being interrogated without a doubt by the British Aurors. James has heard that Director Graves’ old friend—Theseus Scamander, war hero and Auror extraordinaire—is on the case. And he has also heard that the man knows how to do his job. Grindelwald will most certainly crumble in no time.

‘It wasn’t a natural death. Something is off about it. And something is nudging at my mind that it has to do with witchcraft. I don’t know why,’ Langdon suddenly picks up his ramblings again and James faces him instead of studying his dirty shoes. He needs to polish them soon. Maybe he would ask one of the shoeshine boys, usually sitting on the side of the streets. He always passes a few of them on his way to work.

‘I don’t know, Langdon,’ he finally says, taking a step closer and laying a hand on the man’s shoulder, a comforting gesture. Maybe he can stir him away from the train of thoughts that consist of magic—MACUSA would be thankful to have one less No-Maj to worry about. ‘Maybe it was a gas leak. Happens a lot.’

‘It wasn’t a gas leak!’ Langdon shouts and swats James’ hand away, before he regains his posture and takes a deep, shuddering breath. ‘He dropped dead to the floor all of a sudden. I … I …’ He is gripping at his hair now, eyes downcast, head shaking furiously. Langdon is the spitting image of a man, slowly loosing his mind. James pities him. ‘He is dead, James. I didn’t particularly like him, but he is dead and his death is the evidence that witchcraft exists but nobody will believe me! You believe me … don’t you?’ His voice is getting weak to the end, eyes now fixed on James’, a manic glint in them. And James has to admit that he is a bit scared. Scared of this No-Maj who is standing in front of him like a madman, tie slightly askew, hair standing up in all directions, dark bags under his shining, crazy eyes, his coat has slipped off of one of his shoulders. It all makes him look like some drunkard who just stumbled out of an alleyway to beg for money—or to kill someone.

James takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for just a tiny moment, before he lays his hands on Langdon’s shoulders, keeping him from staggering further in his direction. He is skittish, not knowing what he should do in this situation. Oh, he shouldn’t have come back here. He should have let it be and lived his not quite satisfying life in peace. But he is in this situation now and he needs to act. To his chagrin, his wand is safely stored inside his coat pocket and not within reach at this very moment as he is still holding Langdon who is leaning suspiciously heavy against the now sweaty palms of his hands.

‘I believe you,’ James says, just to keep Langdon at bay. _This isn’t good at all_ , he thinks and tries to find a way to calm the other man down.

‘So you will help me to prove that there are witches? We only need Henry’s body and we will have all the evidence we need!’ Langdon is grinning widely now, slightly crazy, his whole face contorted—it’s frightening. His hands are gripping James’ upper arms painfully hard and he is pushing now, making James stumble back against the wall, until they are chest to chest, Langdon breathing heavily into James’ face. He smells like cheap alcohol and cigarette smoke and somehow … it’s comforting. Like the inside of the speakeasy has been comforting with its similar smell, showing James that he could forget about his life just for a little bit.

With a sigh he lets go of Langdon’s shoulders and shakes his head. ‘You want to dig up your brother? You will get caught by the authorities. How about you go home now and rest for a bit? Your head will be clearer in the morning,’ he suggests and attempts a smile, trying to force down the unpleasant feeling of the far too close proximity of another man. And the unpleasant feeling of what would happen if Langdon finds out that his brother’s grave—does it even exist?—is empty. Well, James just needs to keep him away from these thoughts.

Langdon regards him with a look, so utterly hopeless, eyes big and wet, as if he is about to cry. As if James has just killed all the hope he had left. ‘But … it would be the only chance to prove that witches _exist_ ,’ he whispers, his breath fanning James’ face, hot and so uncomfortable, their chests now pressed together, the grip he has on James’ arms so hard they would leave bruises. James just wants to get out of this situation he didn’t expect to find himself in.

‘Listen, Langdon, please?’ James tries to plead with him and gently pries off Langdon’s hands, rubbing his upper arms to ease the pain short fingernails have left. Then he quietly looks at Langdon, wanting him to calm down, and says, ‘Maybe mag—witchcraft’—he catches himself just in time before slipping up—‘is real. But you need to be calm and sober if you want people to listen to you.’ He doesn’t know if it’s a good idea to encourage Langdon further but he has a feeling that it wouldn’t help if he tries to talk him out of it. Maybe if he gets him to stop for _now_ , he will leave it be and move on.

Langdon is still looking at him, eyes devoid of any hope he may have left. ‘But you believe me?’

‘Yes, I do.’ It pains James to say it, knowing fully well that he could be arrested for giving a No-Maj reason to believe that the Wizarding World actually exists. But he is at a loss.

Langdon’s whole frame seems to slump into itself as if a weight has been lifted off of it. He takes a step back, his eyes not leaving James’, and says, ‘You seem to be the only one who understands me. Thank you.’ His voice is small and suddenly he loses all of his fierce power, his gaze on the ground once more. And James wants to reach out and reassure him that everything will be alright. But he doesn’t. As much as it pains him to see the passion leave Langdon, he doesn’t reach out to comfort him.

‘I know it’s hard not to be heard,’ he eventually says and crosses his arms in front of his chest as if to keep out the cold. But he just needs to hold himself together, taking a deep breath and forcing down the thoughts of not being good enough for anyone once again. No, this is not about him. This is about Langdon. And he doesn’t even know why he stands out here, with a practical stranger, listening to his problems. How did he even end up here?

Langdon just nods. ‘Tell me about it,’ he says and heaves a sigh, now mimicking James’ posture. ‘Even now that my brother is dead, father won’t acknowledge me. He writes my ideas off as if I’m just some lunatic, trying to get attention. But I have done my research, I’ve spent hours upon hours to get a good story for him’—James faintly remembers that this Senator Shaw’s father owns one of the big newspapers in New York—‘but he doesn’t even listen to me. Back then he has been busy with Henry’s campaign but now … I don’t know what to do anymore to make him notice me.’ Langdon stops as if he just remembered that he is talking to a near stranger and spilling his personal problems to him. James doesn’t mind much—he knows the feeling of being ignored.

‘I’m sorry,’ he offers after a minute or two. And he means it, seeing himself in Langdon.

‘Yes, me too.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Butt me’ – asking for a cigarette


	3. Chapter 3

The next time James doesn’t even make it into the speakeasy. He is suddenly grabbed by his upper arm and dragged into an alley. His shocked mind barely recognising it as the one he and Langdon have occupied a week prior, talking about the death of Senator Shaw. But now he can’t think of any odd death that is linked to the Wizarding World, his heart pounding loudly in his chest, while he frantically tries to think about a way to get out of this situation. His mind is racing a mile a minute, not coming up with anything helpful. His wand is stored safely in the inside pocket of his coat and he is too small and slender to even think about bodily fighting an assailant.

He is trembling by now, eyes closed tightly, breath ragged. _Just sit it out_ , his mind suggests, not very helpfully. But it is a frightening advise, making James think about all the possible outcomes of this situation. He could end up beaten to a pulp. He could end up robbed. He could end up dead.

Okay, he would rather end up robbed and beaten up than dead. As much as he hates his life right now, he doesn’t want it to end.

‘James?’

‘Oh, thank goodness!’ James breathes out and his eyes snap open, a wobbly grin settling on his features. ‘It’s just you. I thought I was going to get mugged.’

Langdon smiles at him, all confidence and white teeth. It’s as if James can smell the mint off of him—but Langdon most certainly reeks of booze, like the other two times. ‘I promise I’m not going to mug you. But I hoped you would turn up here again and thought that we could spend our evening somewhere else. Sounds good? Good.’

He doesn’t wait for James to answer and James is too shocked to even think of anything to say. He has wanted to spend this Friday evening like the last two, but the prospect of being with Langdon, without anyone watching them like a hawk—namely the barkeeper of the dingy speakeasy, whose cold brick wall is now pressing against James’ back—is tempting. And Langdon seems to already have decided that James will join him on whatever adventure he has planned.

‘Well, whatever you have in mind,’ James finally replies softly and lowers his gaze to the ground, his right foot drawing uneven circles into the slight frost that is already settling there. It will be a cold night again and maybe there will even be snow.

James likes snow—as long as he doesn’t have to walk through it when it’s too deep. But a few inches, painting New York a dreamy white, are always welcome, fuelling the memories of his childhood. Growing up in a small town has its perks—especially the mostly untouched snow just outside of said town in winter. Running through it, jumping into the untouched cold, laughing. Or just sitting on the windowsill with a cup of cocoa, wrapped in a blanket, all cosy and warm … Sometimes he misses it. It’s a stark contrast to snow in New York that turns grey and muddy in the shortest amount of time. But it’s still beautiful to watch it fall, fat flakes, burying the streets and buildings.

There has to be an absent expression on his face, because Langdon asks, ‘Everything alright?’

James snaps out of his daydream and laughs it off, a nervous pitch in his voice. ‘Yes, just got lost in memories. What do you have in mind?’

He isn’t entirely sure if he should really follow Langdon somewhere, but somehow he trusts him. The last two times they have talked have been nothing but pleasant—except for the short time of dark, heavy feelings when the topic has changed to Langdon’s deceased brother.

But none of that now.

James looks at Langdon, anticipation written on his face as he licks his dry lips, his hands now stuffed into the pockets of his coat. The cold air is biting at his uncovered skin, frost seeping into his bones, while they stand there, puffs of hot air coming from their mouths and noses. The sky is slowly getting darker, dusk creeping up on them, killing the faint light in their not so cosy alley.

‘Just follow me,’ Langdon finally says and James doesn’t question it. Maybe he has stopped caring. Maybe he just wants to live for once.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They end up at the Hudson River, tugged away neatly in an alcove, so nobody can see them. If it was anyone else than Langdon with him, James would have thought that he will get murdered soon. But like this it’s actually quite nice, sitting shoulder to shoulder, sharing their body heat in the cold night air—and also sharing a bottle of scotch that Langdon has pulled out of the inside pocket of his coat at one point. The alcohol does its best to keep them warm as well.

‘Tell me about you,’ Langdon says, taking a sip from the bottle, before passing it on to James who takes it gingerly. Their fingers brush when the bottle is handed over, sending little sparks, hot like fire, through James’ hand, up his arm, making him jerk away. He doesn’t even know why. It’s just a reaction that’s not warranted and Langdon looks at him like he has been slapped.

‘Sorry, just … I don’t know. Probably a bit jumpy because of the prohibition and all,’ James mutters as a quickly made up excuse and hastily takes a big gulp to mask his embarrassment. Suddenly the alcove feels too small and not small enough at all, the warmth of Langdon’s body engulfing him completely, making his face burn. James knows exactly that the blush is not only colouring his cheeks red, but also his neck and ears. His body has always been very traitorous. At least it’s dark enough that his flushed skin isn’t very visible in the pale moonlight. Not to talk about the stars that are just not visible directly over New York—that’s the curse of big cities, James thinks.

Langdon seems to be okay with his explanation, though, and just shrugs, gesturing with his left hand. ‘It’s alright. So?’

James remembers the initial question and ponders for a moment, thinking about his life and how much he should tell Langdon. He has to be careful—if he says anything about the Wizarding World, he will be in trouble. But it should be safe enough to just talk a bit about his life in general. With a smile he starts, ‘I grew up in a small town in Missouri, called Parkville. You know, the usual; a small town boy wants to live his dream in the big city. So, I spent my childhood in Parkville and went to a boarding school. Not the most pleasant part of my life, so I’d rather not talk about it.’ It isn’t really a lie, more a stretch of the truth. While he has been happy to attend Ilvermorny, learning everything he could, being a good student, he didn’t have a lot of friends. Well, he didn’t have any friends, only people lounging around him, trying to get him to do their homework. It has been frustrating at times but he has fought his way through it. It has been a lonely time but he doesn’t want to miss it for the world.

‘School’s tough,’ Langdon throws in, tongue already heavy with alcohol, making his voice thick and his New Yorker accent more prominent. James has to actually strain his ears to decipher the words.

He nods. ‘Yes, it is.’ He is a lot more sober than the last two times the two of them have been getting drunk together and that helps him keep his wits about him as he continues, ‘So, when I got to New York I had this big picture in mind. You know, getting a good job, being renowned, finding a nice dame to introduce to my parents before marrying her. But it doesn’t always go as planned, does it?’ His voice is bitter by now and he feels like a failure in every department. His job is mediocre at best, he is looked down upon by his coworkers and superiors—and he doesn’t even want to think about any woman that would like to marry him.

His thoughts linger on a certain blonde witch, beautiful and with a smile that makes you go weak in the knees. Yes, Queenie is far out of his league and he knows it. But still, there is the small, lingering hope that she might actually _see_ him. It wouldn’t be the first time in history that the extraordinary beautiful woman chooses the hard working, mediocre man instead of the good-looking one who hasn’t an ounce of intelligence in his brain.

‘I ended up in a job that only _I_ deem important, being treated like …’ It feels hard to admit and James has to take a deep breath before he can continue. ‘Being treated like shit by my superiors and coworkers, who don’t even think that my department is necessary. I’m just a better coffee wi—coffee boy to them. And whenever I actually get them their coffee, I don’t even get a thank you. And I don’t even want to think about a woman in my life—because there is none.’ His legs are drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, while his voice gets more and more quiet with each word. ‘So, that’s basically my life story.’

Usually he wouldn’t overshare like this but Langdon has wanted to know, has asked for it. And James has delivered. And Langdon probably won’t remember by tomorrow by how fast he’s emptying the scotch, the bottle seeming to be attached to his lips.

At some point during his ramblings it has started to snow, small flakes slowly turning the world around them white.

‘I know that feeling.’ Langdon lowers the bottle, putting it on the ground, apparently having emptied it completely. James can tell that he tries to talk clearly, his words just a tiny bit slower than usual, as if his tongue has problems wrapping around them. ‘Of not being enough, I mean. I have never been enough for my father, have never been the son he wanted. But my brother—yeah, he is the perfect son. Was. He was the perfect son. Being senator at age thirty, being well-liked, being … being _normal_. Not like his little brother, the freak who believes that witches exist, that the Salem Trials weren’t conducted by some lunatics, burning random people. Not like his little brother, who still can’t seem to get their father’s attention, despite being the only child now, working his ass off for a good story, to keep the newspaper going. Not like his little brother, who was always liked less by their parents, because he didn’t grow up to their standards.’

James watches Langdon. First out of the corner of his eye, then he turns his head and looks at him full-on, watching the man crumble under the pressure he puts on himself. The words are so slurred now that he can barely understand them, but right now understanding them isn’t important. It’s more important that Langdon is crying silent tears, his face glistening wetly in the pale light of the moon and the warm, orange shine of the far away street lamps. James even thinks he can see some delicate teardrops clinging to the other’s lashes, making him look somewhat … beautiful? He isn’t entirely sure if that’s the word he wants to use to describe Langdon right now. But there’s no denying it that Langdon is alluring, all emotional and upset, asking for someone to be there for him. To hold him. His whole body screams for someone to tenderly cradle him in their arms, rocking back and forth, murmuring sweet, reassuring words right into his ear.

And James thinks that he can be this someone. He wants to reach out, wants to touch this fragile man, wants to gently cup his cheek into the palm of his hand, feeling the slight stubble and the wetness of his tears against his own skin. James realises with a start that he wants to comfort Langdon and this urge makes his stomach churn violently.

No. No, this isn’t right. Langdon is not a woman in need who asks for a man to hold her and tell her everything will be fine. Langdon is a grown man, able to pull himself together. He should be ashamed to show such weakness in front of another man—especially because James is gradually getting more nervous about how to react. He is at a loss.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know why—’ Langdon starts but never finishes the sentence, shaking his head and looking away. His voice is choked, barely suppressed emotions keeping him from saying more, and James feels for him. He knows what Langdon is going through and he desperately wants to help, seeing how obviously embarrassed the other man is, trying to hide his flushed cheeks.

‘It’s fine,’ James says in an attempt to calm the situation. His hand comes up to rest on Langdon’s forearm without James even thinking about the gesture, his body just reacting. But it seems to soothe his new … friend. Acquaintance. Langdon visibly relaxes under his gentle touch, under the comforting weight and warmth of his hand. ‘Sometimes you just need to talk about it without anyone judging you.’ Usually James would judge every man who wears his heart on his tongue like that, but how can he judge Langdon when he himself isn’t any better? When he has just admitted that he sees himself as a failure whose hard work doesn’t get acknowledged by anyone? The answer is: He can’t.

‘Thank you.’

They sit in silence for a bit—maybe it’s minutes, maybe an hour. James doesn’t care, nor does he pull out his pocket watch to check the time. It’s Friday and he doesn’t need to be anywhere. At this very moment he is just content to sit next to Langdon on the cold ground, tucked away in an alcove, their bodies touching, sharing the warmth their coats can’t provide. But their shared body heat doesn’t stop their clothes from getting clammy due to the snow surrounding them, doesn’t stop the uncomfortable feeling of wet fabric clinging to chilled skin. Maybe they will be sick by tomorrow. Maybe they won’t.

James finds he doesn’t really care.

‘Let’s get out of here.’ Langdon is on his feet before he even finishes his proposal, looking down at James. His eyes are still glistening wetly and his cheeks are still flushed—if it’s because of the embarrassment he still feels or because of the cold, James can’t tell. But he doesn’t need to, because no matter what the reason … it makes Langdon just look beautiful. Like a painting come to life, all rosy cheeks and red nose, eyes melancholically sad, illuminated by the moonlight, making his skin glow blueish pale, making him appear unnatural. Like a ghost, a magical spirit, coming to take James away from this life.

He feels entranced by the fae like creature in front of him. Of course he knows that his mind is playing tricks on him, that Langdon is a perfectly normal human being, but he wants so desperately to escape his life right now that he doesn’t care.

He finds himself on his own two feet in an instant, taking a step towards the other man, wanting to trust him. His heart is hammering in his chest, his body shivering. He can’t tell if it’s from the cold or something else. He just knows that the trembling reaches from the top of his head to down to his toes, making his whole being crawl with a want he has never experienced before.

‘Good idea,’ he hears himself say, his voice strangely breathy, not as confident as usual. It is more natural, more vulnerable. More human. In this moment it shows the humanity he so often suppresses in favour of appearing well kept together and potent.

Langdon must have read something in his face—James doesn’t know what—because suddenly he takes a step closer, crowding James uncomfortably tight against the wall right next to their alcove. The cold, rough bricks dig into his back, making it unable for him to move, and with a sudden realisation it hits him that Langdon is an inch or two taller than him. It’s not hard to be taller than James but in this moment he feels helpless due to this minimal difference in height, rendering him small and vulnerable. And Langdon, acting like a predator, ready to jump its prey, doesn’t make things easier. And James slowly realises that _he_ is the prey, all skittish and nervous, sweat gathering on his brow. He swallows heavily.

‘Langdon,’ he croaks, his voice unnaturally high, frightened. Showing the weakness that is settled deep inside his bones, showing the weakness that he so desperately wants to hide. Displaying it in broad daylight—well, moonlight, but that is beside the point now.

Langdon doesn’t answer, instead he presses James harder against the unyielding wall, caging him with his slightly taller body—at least he is not broader, as lean as James himself, a slender body, fitting so perfectly against his own. It almost feels natural. It almost feels good.

But then Langdon’s eyes catch his own, dark and full of promises, full of desire. A mixture of want and lust burning in them, ensnaring James, making him unable to move, making him short of breath. His lungs feel like they might combust in the next second, like he has just run a marathon without taking a break.

His hands find their way to Langdon’s upper arms, either holding him off or drawing him in closer, he can’t tell. And Langdon seems encouraged by it, pressing himself up against James, his right leg placed neatly between both of James’, rubbing all but innocently up against the slowly building bulge in James’ slacks. His breath is coming in short gasps now, forming clouds between them, blurring Langdon’s face which inches closer with every second.

The enticing smell of strong scotch, cheap cologne and fresh sweat engulfs James, makes his head dizzy, wrapping around him like a cosy blanket, like he is used to the scent, it being calming and soothing, making him go slack against Langdon’s body. He feels like he is melting under the other’s touch, like ice rubbed between warm hands.

And Langdon is rubbing him just right, eliciting rough gasps and pants from him, the urge to moan burning in his throat like a freshly ignited fire. But he refuses to get any louder, refuses to react. The urge to shove Langdon away is strong and he should do it but somehow he can’t, is drawn in by this man, by his touches, by his body against his own. It feels just so good. This raw, unrestrained attention. And his brain just stops to think about that this isn’t right, that two men shouldn’t engage like this.

And when Langdon presses their mouths together, James’ brain shuts down completely. His body burns like being thrown into the pit of a volcano, everything is aflame, heat eating him up from the inside out. And if his mind has gone completely silent before, it is now screaming like a banshee, high pitched and echoing in his head, the feeling so intense that he thinks he might faint.

But Langdon’s lips, cold and slightly chapped, clumsily moving against his own, their teeth grazing, draw him in, make him clutch at the other man harder, holding him close to himself, their breath mingling between them, whenever they come apart. It’s heady and intoxicating and utterly real, it makes James’ heart stutter and churn, makes it beat harder, faster, as if it wants to break out of the confines of his chest.

When they finally draw apart, they are breathing heavily, eyes glazed, feverish, cheeks tinted pink. And James just knows that the flush is creeping down his neck and colouring his ears red. He briefly wonders how deep Langdon’s blush reaches, if it stops at his chest or goes further down, painting his whole body in this lovely shade of tender pink, like the sky after the sunset.

‘Come home with me,’ Langdon demands—it is a demand, not a question, nor a suggestion. And his voice is deep, almost a growl, all the predator James has seen in him earlier, prowling on him, making him feel even smaller than he already is.

But as soon as Langdon reaches down and cups his aching length through his slacks, James’ head clears and he jerks back. Suddenly he is scandalised, wondering how he could have even thought about engaging in such behaviour, so entirely uncommon for him. So entirely _wrong_. ‘I’m not a quiff!’ He all but shouts and pushes Langdon back who looks at him, confusion written in those intense eyes. But James forbids himself to think about it, making a hasty escape and leaving Langdon behind, missing the longing stare send after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Quiff’ – slut or cheap prostitute


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW ahead!

The weekend passes in a blur. It’s hard not to think about Langdon and what has happened between them and so James engages himself in frantically cleaning his small, humble apartment, trying to keep his mind occupied. He scrubs his bathroom, puts clean sheets on his bed, he even cleans every single window. By the end of Sunday all rooms are shining, not a single grain of dust to be found. And when he can’t clean, he cooks—he even attempts baking, but that ends in too much smoke and too black cookies, so he doesn’t try it again. He can be glad that the No-Majs don’t notice anything or otherwise he would have to deal with the … What is the term? Fire something. He knows the No-Majs have something to fight big fires.

But he can’t keep himself busy all the time—he needs at least a few hours of sleep. But whenever he tries to rest, his mind wanders to Langdon and how his body has felt against James’, how his lips have fitted so perfectly against his own. It’s those times that he shivers, his whole body reacting to the feelings still tingling through his veins. He can’t help it. Maybe he is just lonely, he thinks to himself, trying to find a reason why he wishes to have gone with Langdon when the other man has offered to take their liaison to his apartment. Maybe it’s just that.

It’s those times that he finds himself taking a cold shower, shame tinting his cheeks pink, while he tries to will down the lust surging through his body. One out of two times he isn’t successful. That’s when he increases the heat of the water and touches himself, his hand wrapping loosely around his hard cock. He is still ashamed, still doesn’t want to feel this way, because it is _wrong_. It isn’t right for a man to think like this about another man. But still, his mind wanders back to Langdon, to the feelings the man has sparked inside of him, like a small flame, slowly growing, filling him with warmth. The cold Friday night hasn’t felt so cold anymore when Langdon has been so close—too close.

His eyes fall shut and he concentrates on the feeling of stroking himself. Not nice and slow, but fast and nearly punishing—as if hurting himself will drive the lust away. As if taking a hard and nearly painful pace will get these sinful thoughts out of his head. But none of that helps. His mind only conjures Langdon’s face, playing tricks on him, simulating the other man’s touch on James’ hard cock. Long, slender fingers sliding over it, brushing over the tip, pressing against the slit.

And James is panting, eyes still closed, face held into the gentle beam of water, running over his sensitive body, making everything slippery. His hand is still working fast, his mind still providing the image of Langdon right in front of him, kissing his neck, teeth scraping over heated skin, and James gasps. He can feel the heat inside his body building, a volcano, ready to erupt. It feels like his insides are on fire, flames licking on his muscles and bones, wandering from his limbs to the core of his body, gathering in the pit of his stomach—a hot, searing sensation, making him whine.

The image of Langdon soothes him, whispers sweet nothings into his ear, tells him it’s okay, that everything will be fine. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m here, I’m with you,’ he murmurs, hot breath against James’ ear, making his skin tingle. A hand settles on his hip, a gentle thumb brushing over his wet skin. It’s a grounding feeling and James lets himself fall, knowing that Langdon will catch him.

A nip at his ear. A squeeze to his hip. A chest pressed to his own. A quick stroke. Breathing in sync. And soon he buries his face in Langdon’s shoulder, muffling a scream against flushed skin, teeth grinding into soft flesh.

He comes hard over Langdon’s hand and his own belly, face sweaty and deeply red, hands trembling from the intense sensation. He feels all wobbly, legs barely supporting him, breathing ragged, hair framing his face with wet strands. And Langdon stands in front of him, smiling down at him, his hand coming up to brush over his cheek, barely touching. ‘See? Everything is alright,’ he says, before his form becomes blurred and the traitorous image of a man vanishes.

Suddenly the shame comes back, crashing down on James tenfold, making him stumble back and lean against the wall, panting hard, eyes wide in shock. He has just masturbated to the image of a man he barely knows, a man he has barely talked to. _But you liked it_ , a voice inside his head whispers—his own voice, clear and strong inside his own mind. And the hard truth makes him sink down against the wall, makes him sit on the wet floor of the shower while hot water rains down on him, his face buried in his hands in shame.

 

 

* * *

 

 

At least, when Monday rolls around, he has his work to distract himself with. It’s not like he has much to do, but sitting in his office and reading reports at least requires a certain amount of concentration, so his mind won’t wander to Langdon again. And James really needs a few hours where he doesn’t think about the other man.

It’s not that he is overly enthusiastic to go to MACUSA, especially not after the last few weeks. It has been strenuous to say the least, all the people demanding things of him but never saying that they appreciate his work. James knows they don’t need to voice it, you don’t do a job to get praised—but the utter lack of any gratitude towards him is exhausting. He knows he isn’t seen as much more than the girls working in his department, making coffee for their superiors. His work in Wand Permits is useless, they say. He knows it, has heard it often enough. Nobody dares to say it to his face, though.

Sometimes James is grateful for their cowardice. It means he doesn’t have to face what other people think of him, doesn’t have to hear that he is a disappointment again and again. Sometimes he wants them to tell him, so he can tell them how much his work here means, how much he actually contributes to the workings of MACUSA. He does so much his position doesn’t even require him to do and no one even seems to notice. It’s not his job to make coffee or read reports of people in other departments. No. But he does it anyway, because he isn’t busy with anything else and he has always been someone who thinks people should help each other. But apparently he seems to be the only one to think so. It’s disheartening. No wonder people working in government jobs tend to get bitter with time.

A knock on the door to his office startles him out of his musings. He looks up at the door and then down at his hand that’s clutching a quill with white knuckles, holding it over a pile of papers. With a sigh he realises that for the past few minutes his quill has been dripping onto the report he has been proofreading.

‘Come in,’ he calls, before he fumbles for his wand to get rid of the ink stain. A muttered ‘ _Tergeo!_ ’ later and the paper is white again—although littered with too many typos. Whoever wrote that report would have to rewrite it. James won’t do that for them.

The door clicks open and in comes Queenie, all sunshine and bright smiles. James’ mood brightens immediately upon seeing her. It isn’t exaggerating to compare her to an angel with her blonde locks, her fair skin and the aura of happiness that seems to never leave her. Well, except for the time she has mourned the loss of this No-Maj, whose acquaintance she has made when Grindelwald has wreaked havoc in the city. But now, two months later, she is smiling again and only the halo and the wings are missing to make her a real angel.

‘Hello, Mr Abernathy,’ she greets him with a warm smile and her singsong voice. It’s pleasant and he feels the corners of his mouth turn upwards. ‘I’ve got coffee for you, just like you like it—with four sugar cubes and cream.’

She sets down the cup in front of him on his desk, gently sweeping aside the report as not to stain it. He looks up at her and sighs tiredly. ‘Thank you, Queenie,’ he says. Usually she would leave now and let him do his work—there are days he wishes she would stay. Like today. Her company is welcome and he loves her light chatter. It keeps his mind from wandering in the wrong direction. It also helps that she is utterly beautiful, a woman you can look at for hours on end. He will never get tired of her presence.

She seems to sense his reluctance to let her go as she lingers and shoots him a meaningful look. Her soft question of, ‘Is everything alright, Mr Abernathy?’ sends a longing through his body he hasn’t known before. James yearns to talk to someone—anyone. He feels so awfully lonely.

No, he can’t give in to these feelings, can’t burden anyone, especially not Queenie, with his problems. And what would he say anyway? That he is loosing sleep over a man he apparently has a crush on? Or no. Not a crush. He isn’t like that. Maybe he admires Langdon, but nothing more. And his body, his mind, is reacting too strongly to the first person in months who has been interested in him. Who has actually listened to him for once. The realisation makes his heart ache even more.

‘I’m fine, Queenie, but I need to finish these reports,’ he finally says, his voice a bit rough. He clears his throat and gestures meaningfully to the pile of papers on his desk that she has swept aside a few minutes ago to make room for his coffee. ‘Mr Falcon wants them all to be done by five and I’m only done with one—that actually needs to be rewritten, so I’ll have to give it a once again in a few hours. And there are still three more to go.’

She looks at him and he swears that her eyes are a bit sad—maybe she senses that something is wrong. He wouldn’t put it past her, she is clever and more perceptive than people give her credit for. To keep himself from asking her to stay, he takes a sip of his coffee. It’s perfect, just as he likes it. Queenie has made coffee for him long enough to know exactly how he wants it. A smile stretches his lips and he can feel it reaching his eyes. And isn’t that nice? To know that a simple thing like a perfectly made coffee can make him burst into a genuine smile?

‘Mr Abernathy?’ Queenie is still standing in front of his desk, her hands fidgeting with each other. She looks kind of unsure and he just can’t turn her away. He nods to signal her that he is listening. He doesn’t expect her to sit down in his visitor chair and fold her hands on his desk. Her expression grows serious.

‘Uhm … Queenie, didn’t I just say that I need to work?’ He asks tentatively and to emphasise his words he lifts an eyebrow, giving her a look that should tell her to not bother him any longer. But Queenie rarely cares about something like that—she knows she can get away with nearly anything. And right now she is batting her long lashes at him.

‘You did,’ she agrees and smiles a bright smile, showing her teeth. ‘But there is something bothering you. I think you should talk about it—I won’t tell anyone. You will feel better, Sir.’

James is dumbstruck. Yes, there is something bothering him, even though he thought that he is hiding it quite well. But for someone to actually address it … well, he didn’t expect that. Carefully he avoids her gaze and licks his lips, before he answers, slowly, ‘There might be something, but … I don’t think it’s any of your business.’

Her soft eyes bore into him, knowingly. As if she can see his very soul, every single one of his thoughts. And suddenly he feels so tired. Tired of lying to himself and everyone else—but he just can’t tell her about Langdon. Maybe … maybe if he makes it sound like it is about a woman … He could just send her away, but he yearns for opening up to someone about his problems and Queenie is sitting here, patiently waiting for him to come around.

He is still debating with himself if he should really talk to her, ask her for advise, when she beats him to it. Boldly she reaches over the desk and takes one of his hands in both of hers. The sudden warmth shoots through him and his eyes sting with held back tears. No, he won’t cry in front of her—he won’t cry at all. How weak is he that he craves such simple human contact so much that it makes him tear up when someone touches him so gently? He presses his lips together in a thin line, refusing to do anything. If he tries to speak right now, his voice will break, he is sure of it.

‘Oh, honey,’ Queenie whispers and her thumb brushes delicately over his shaking hands. ‘You can tell me.’

And it breaks out of him, his voice sounding strangled to his own ears, while he tries to suppress the emotions raging inside of him. He doesn’t dare look at Queenie, doesn’t want to give her more, even though he is sure she already knows more than she is letting on. It’s just how she is. She looks into your soul and strips you raw of any shields you may have. ‘I … Well …’ He stammers and hates himself for it. He clears his throat and tries to approach this in a more strategic way, ‘Uhm … there is this ma—woman.’ _Oh dear, she didn’t notice, did she?_ ‘Well, I mean, we get along very well and … I think I might, well, like her. And I … uhm … I think she likes me, too? Or maybe she’s just using me—I don’t know! It’s just … All of this is very confusing.’

Embarrassment tints his cheeks a deep red, his whole face feeling hot, tears stinging scorchingly in his eyes upon his confession. The last time he has felt like this he has still been a student at Ilvermorny and his Transfiguration Professor has scolded him in front of the whole class for failing a simple spell again and again. The humiliation has burnt the memory into his brain, never letting him forget this day.

He can practically feel Queenie’s worried gaze on him and bites his lip, his hand suddenly feeling clammy in both of Queenie’s. He wants to pull away but at the same time he is glad she is holding his hand like this, all comforting and without judgement. He just has to hope that she won’t tell anyone about this—not even her sister.

She squeezes his hand reassuringly and he finally looks up and straight into her eyes that shine in sympathy. A warm, albeit sad, smile grazes her lips. ‘Well, you can never know if you don’t try, can you?’ She asks, obviously implying that he should go for it, just take what he wants for once.

But it isn’t that easy and Queenie doesn’t know it, because he can hardly tell her that he wants to be with a man—and it is all so, _so_ wrong, it makes his insides churn. ‘I’s complicated,’ he says, his voice choked and rough. He clears his throat once again, wanting to get rid of a voice that sounds like he is about to cry. Because he isn’t. He doesn’t want to be.

How can such a simple thing reduce him to something as pitiful as a kicked puppy? He needs to man up, needs to get his emotions under control—but it isn’t as easy as everyone makes it out to be. He is pathetic.

‘Oh no, no, you are not pathetic for feeling this way,’ Queenie quips in and James wonders if he has said anything out loud. ‘But, as I said, you can never know what would have happened if you don’t try. Give hi—her a chance, won’t you, Mr Abernathy?’

And how could he resist her? Innocent and beautiful as she is, sitting right in front of his desk, her warm, small hands engulfing his ever so gently, all smooth, pale skin. Her blonde curls are bobbing around her face, slightly pink from the bright smile she’s sporting. And her eyes—her stunningly blue eyes—are fixed on his face, looking into his very soul, reading him like no one else is able to. She looks like she knows things about him he doesn’t even know about himself. He knows exactly why he admires her so much—and not only for her appearance.

_Maybe she is right. I will never know what could be if I don’t give him a chance. And even if it’s just for one night—it could be worth it, couldn’t it?_ He thinks and puts his free hand over Queenie’s, giving it a grateful squeeze. He can even feel a small smile fighting its way onto his face when he looks at her. ‘Thank you,’ he says, voice quiet and composed. ‘Maybe I should try.’

‘Maybe you should,’ she responds and that settles it.

 


End file.
